Blame it on the Alcohol
by FiwiKruit
Summary: Sam and Dean get drunk. Multiple times. Everybody knows you lose control when you're drunk; sometimes it feels like Dean's control is all that's holding him together. Explicit Wincest.


**Inspired by a beautiful video and written over two nights.**

**I don't own the boys. I just write for them.**

x

It starts, like it always does, in a bar. Dean buys the drinks because Sam won the last round of poker, and because Sam had it rough on their last hunt and Dean doesn't know how else to make him feel better. He never was any good with words, with talking through feelings - and that's what gets them into the whole mess in the first place.

Dean doesn't know when to stop, either - so they're plastered when they stumble into the cheap motel room. It's a pleasant drunk, happy and buzzy and unrestricted, but it's on the verge of the kind of drunk you regret the next morning. The kind where you forget who you are and what you're not allowed to do, and the only thing you seem to be able to remember is what you _want_.

There's more alcohol in the motel fridge - beer that tastes like piss but sends your head reeling, a bottle of the nastiest tequila on the market. Sam grins drunkenly as Dean brandishes it, collapsing backwards onto the tatty couch and letting his head drop back.

"Go to sleep on me, bitch, and I'll kill you," Dean mutters, poking his brother in the side and handing him a shot glass. "You gonna match me?"

"'Course," Sam slurs, his eyes holding Dean's gaze, filled with challenge and daring - and something else that Dean pushes to the side of his mind and pointedly ignores, because he's still sober enough to know that it's a bad idea to pursue that train of thought.

The tequila burns on the way down, but it blurs the edges of Dean's vision and drops another blanket of inebriation over his mind. Sam's still grinning, his body draped sloppily over the sofa, Dean between his legs on the floor.

They down two more shots each, then switch to beer. By now, neither of them can remember why they're getting drunk, and neither of them wants to remember. Everything is steadily slipping away from them, hidden behind a haze of cheap drinks.

Dean doesn't notice when his self-restraint disappears back there too.

He wouldn't be able to explain, the next morning, when the change happened, or who initiated it, but one moment he was spread out across the floor, and the next he was on top of Sam, crawling up his brother's body and pulling his lips in for a messy, drunken kiss.

There's not even a pause before Sam starts kissing back, as though he was expecting it - and maybe he was. Dean's not sure, but he thinks he felt Sam's hands on his sides and on his face as he approached, tugging him forward, urging him closer.

Sam kisses like Dean always thought he would, back when he used to jerk off to the idea of Sam's lips around his cock, face flushed in equal parts arousal and shame. He's almost like a storm; teeth digging into Dean's lips and scraping across his tongue; hands groping at hair and clothes and skin; tongue sliding and stroking and dancing. They're tangled up on the couch - legs tangled, fingers tangled, tongues tangled, heart tangled.

Dean pulls back, the alcohol making his movement more violent than he was expecting, and they tumble to the floor, Sam crashing down on top of Dean, catching himself on his elbows at the last minute. Dean thinks maybe there'll be bruises on his hips where Sam's pelvis caught them, but Sam's mouth is covering his again, and the pain's masked by beer and tequila.

Their hips grind together slowly, Sam rocking downwards and Dean pushing up into him, hands splayed across his brother's back. There's no time for thinking - and that's probably a good thing, because Sam is his _brother_-

Dean pulls back sharply, pushes hard at Sam, who wasn't expecting the shove so rolls to one side. Dean scrambles to his knees, chest heaving, and shakes his head.

"No," he mutters, pressing a hand to his mouth. "No no no no no." The words all slur into one long moan, and he pushes violently to his feet, knocking the half empty tequila bottle off the table. Sam stares at him mutely.

"'s fucking _wrong_," Dean groans, taking one last look at Sam before bolting out of the room and into the cold night air.

Sam sits and watches as the puddle of tequila on the colourless carpet grows, the silence of the room ringing in his ears.

x

They both decide, silently, not to talk about it. Dean can't look Sam in the eye for a long time, and he feels sick at himself every time he jerks off because he can't help but remember the feel of Sam's lips on his - can't help but see Sam's eyes slide shut and his mouth drop open slightly. It's always been wrong, always felt dirty, but now it's so much _worse_ because he knows how his brother tastes. And that's so not right he doesn't even want to think about it.

And then they get drunk again.

Dean tries not to, tries to stick to a couple of beers, but Sam pulls out his puppy-dog face, and God be damned if that doesn't get him what he wants every single time. It's not long before he's clinking his fourth shot glass against Sam's.

He tries not to notice when his gaze lingers too long on Sam's body. He tries to ignore the stab of desire in his gut when Sam rises to his feet and stretches out his body lazily. He tries to pretend he's not hard, that he doesn't want Sam in all the wrong ways.

But he can't keep himself from sending Sam a lazy wink, and Sam's grin sets him off grinning, and then Sam's leaning in real close and Dean can smell the motel soap on his skin and the beer on his breath.

"Whaddya say we get out of here?" Sam whispers, and Dean feels his breath ghosting out across his skin, and if it sends shivers down his spine then they both pretend not to notice.

They don't make it back to the motel. They don't even make it out of the bar.

The toilet stalls are cramped and filthy, but Sam manhandles Dean into anyone, and Dean drops to his knees without really thinking about the stained floor. He stares up at Sam for a second, not speaking, just looking - his expression reverent, as though he was in prayer. Sam's breath catches in the back of his throat as he takes in Dean's open, vulnerable eyes.

When Dean gets drunk, properly drunk, it pushes back the mask he keeps his feelings hidden behind. Sam's pretty sure Dean doesn't even know it happens, but it does, and it always takes his breath away, seeing that utter honesty shining out at him.

Dean fumbles as he flicks open the buttons on Sam's jeans, cursing softly under his breath. They're both pissed; Sam unsteady on his feet and Dean with vision beginning to blur. But it only takes a few more clumsy attempts before Dean's sliding Sam's jeans down, hooking his fingers around Sam's briefs and tugging sharply, lips parting slightly as Sam's cock lifts out.

Sam groans out loud when Dean leans forward and presses his lips onto the tip in a tentative kiss. The sound reverberates through Dean's body, emboldening him, and he dips his head lower, tracing his tongue down one side, following the bluish veins running just under the skin.

The smell of the bathroom - of piss and alcohol and drugs and vomit - is drowned out by the heady smell of Sam's skin and Sam's sweat and Sam's come. It fills Dean's head, intoxicating him quicker than the tequila had, and he slides his eyes closed and just breathes it in, wondering if it would be possible to just stay like this forever. With his mind screwed up with booze and lust and Sam, his life seems like a distant dream, hardly worth worrying about.

It's safe and it's comforting and it feels like coming home after years of staying away.

He blames the alcohol for the open-mouthed kiss he presses on Sam's cock. He blames the alcohol as he slides forward, his lips stretching pleasantly around his brother. He blames the alcohol for the moan that vibrates over Sam's erection, and for the long strokes of his tongue, and for the whorish sucks that fill the cubicle with obscene sounds.

For now, all Dean wants to do is forget. So he lets the cloud of drunken desire take over, and gives in to what he's wanted for so long, letting his brother fill his mouth and his heart, eyes shut against the truth. It's not right, but it's not wrong either, not anymore. Not when they've both fought it for so long it's become part of their lives, so intricately tied in that it would probably kill them to take it out.

When Sam comes, it's long and hard, and without warning - his taste flooding Dean's mouth. Dean swallows obediently, dropping one hand down to the bulge in his jeans and pressing his palm down into his erection. Sam's hands clench on the back of his head, holding him place, and he sucks Sam down through his orgasm, the heel of his hand circling his cock through the denim of his pants.

Sam tugs Dean easily to his feet, claiming Dean's lips with his own, pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth and sweeping it around as though trying to wipe the taste of himself from his brother's mouth. One of his hands drops to cover Dean's, pushing and rubbing and grinding into Dean's cock, and Dean comes in his jeans a few heartbeats later, moaning a half choke, half sob out into Sam's mouth.

They collapse into each other, standing in the dark stall with their arms entangled and their head pressed together, harsh pants mixing between their faces. Dean can't meet Sam's eyes, and Sam wonders if maybe he should be feeling worse about coming in his brother's mouth.

x

Dean doesn't know how to feel about the blowjob in the bar toilets, so he pushes it to the back of his mind where he can pretend it didn't happen and avoid all the messy emotions that swirl around the memory.

But Sam's going out of his way to get his brother drunk again, because they need to face this issue and he knows that Dean won't think about it while he's sober.

So they find themselves in yet another seedy bar, with Sam paying this time, and maybe he slips the bartender a little extra to top Dean's beer up with vodka, maybe he doesn't. Either way, it's not long before Dean's eyes are open again, his emotions playing out across them in a captivating dance of guilt and regret and self-loathing.

"I make myself feel sick, Sam," is the first thing he says after they arrive in the bar, after almost a straight hour of drinking in silence. "I... I'm disgusting. I have these- these _feelings_ and they're wrong and sick and filthy but I can't stop them. I don't know how to make them go away."

Sam doesn't know whether to respond or not, whether to reassure his brother or stay quiet and let Dean have his say - and what would he say anyway? What is there to say about something as fucked up as what they have, what they want?

"I want things that are fucked up, and I know they're fucked up, but I want them anyway. Sometimes it gets so bad it feels like I'm drowning, y'know. Like I'm drowning in _you_ and I hate it, I do. I wish I could quit it, quit you."

It stung, but Sam couldn't hold it against his brother. How many nights had he lied awake, wishing the same thing? Wishing he hadn't gone and fallen in love or lust or whatever the hell it was they were feeling with Dean. Wishing he could start the whole damn thing over, so he wouldn't have to feel that hurt whenever he looked at Dean.

"Why does it have to be wrong?" Sam asks softly, without even thinking about what he's saying. He knows why - of course he knows. Dean sends him a glance, eyes gentle with sadness and alcohol, a smile playing at his lips.

"Because life's not fair, Sammy. Life's never fair."

Sam's leaning forward before he could stop himself, kissing his brother in the middle of the bar. Dean's eyes are wide and his lips parted when Sam pulls back, a flush colouring his cheeks - whether from the drink or the embarrassment, Sam can't say. But his gaze fills with a sudden, steely determination, lust filtering in around the edges, and then Dean is on his feet and heading out the bar.

Sam has time to throw down a handful of notes before chasing after his brother.

They're kissing again before they got inside the dark room, Sam's hands roaming across Dean's back and shoulders as Dean fumbles behind him for the keyhole. After a few drunken attempts, the door swings open and they're tumbling in, a mess of limbs and want and grabby hands. Dean pulls Sam down for another clash of lips, kicking the door shut behind them and marching Sam backwards until his knees hit the bed and he collapses back onto it.

Dean's fiddling with his jeans, tugging them undone and then down his legs, stepping out of them as he pulls his shirt hastily over his head. And then he's on Sam's lap, naked and open, body draped sloppily over Sam's frame. Sam growls low in his throat as Dean's hands fiddle with his buttons, pushing his shirt back off his shoulders. His brother's chest presses into his own as he does so, his hips grinding down into Sam's and dragging out a soft moan.

And then Sam flips them over, and Dean's on his back, staring up at Sam with dark, hooded eyes, a smirk on his face. Sam settles between his legs, tugging his jeans off in a smooth movement and crawling over his brother, straddling Dean's hips lazily.

His brother reaches up and catches his face, pulling him down into a softer kiss; slower and deeper, their lips moving together in a way that says so much more than _I want you_.

Sam gasps into Dean's mouth, breath hitching as Dean drags one hand down to his thighs and then higher, brushing both their fingertips over the soft skin of his arse. Dean pulls back from the kiss to meet Sam's wide eyes.

"Please," he murmurs softly, pressing Sam's hand messily to his entrance then letting go of it. "Please, Sam."

Sam just nods mutely, swallowing roughly.

"Lube?" he asks, wondering briefly if he's drunk enough for this. Then Dean nods to the cupboard by the side of the bed, and Sam finds a pot of lube in there and he realises Dean's planned this. Dean wants this too.

Suddenly it doesn't matter that they're both pissed. It doesn't matter that they'll both hate themselves, and maybe each other, in the morning. It just matters that Dean's there and Dean wants it as badly as Sam does.

Dean's back arches when Sam's slicked up finger press inside him, and Sam's mouth descends on his in a soft, soothing kiss. He whispers apologies and comforts against his brother's lips until Dean relaxes enough for him to move his finger and slowly add another.

When he crooks his fingertips a certain way, Dean shoots off the bed again, this time in pleasure. Sam repeats the movement, biting gently at Dean's neck, and slides a third finger in alongside the other two. Dean's panting and moaning and begging like a slut, and Sam didn't know he'd find that arousing until he's faced with it - and then he's harder than he can ever remember being. Because Dean's letting himself go completely, and Sam knows it's because of the alcohol rushing through his system, but it's still the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

Sam kisses Dean hard as he pushes in, stroking his brother's side and cheek when he tenses up, mouth twisting in pain. He presses feather-light kisses to Dean's eyes and his cheeks and his jaw, and just strokes until Dean's relaxed again.

And then he starts to move.

They're both groaning and panting and gasping for air, breath heavy and hearts pounding. Dean's hand finds Sam's and he entwines their fingers together, leaning up to kiss his brother as he lifts his hips to meet Sam's thrusts. It's messy and sloppy and it's so perfect it steals all of Sam's sanity, until he's left with nothing but Dean. Dean's everywhere; around him, under him, on his lips and his back and his front.

Sam jerks Dean to orgasm, and when Dean comes he clenches around Sam's cock, and it's only a few more heartbeats before Sam's coming too, his arms giving out and his body crushing Dean as he drops to the bed.

They kiss one last time before Sam rolls over and off, and they fall asleep stinking of sex and come and beer.

x

Dean doesn't want to talk about it, but they both know they'll have to. You can't fuck your brother and pretend it didn't happen, it doesn't matter how drunk you were. And it's not just sex, not for either of them. They know that. If there's one thing they're sure of in the whole screwed up situation, it's that it's not just sex.

They're sober when they have the inevitable conversation.

They stay in the motel room, sitting beside each other on the bed, Dean staring down at his clasped hands and Sam watching the wall opposite them.

"I always thought I could handle it," Dean says softly, breaking the silence. "I told myself that everything would be okay if I ignored it. It would go away, and I would move on."

"It never did, did it?" Sam asks gently, dropping his eyes to his brother's face. Dean's lips quirk up into a slight smile, and he shakes his head.

"It never did."

"I was so sure that you'd hate me," Sam mutters, holding his hands out in front of him as though offering a gift. "That you'd be disgusted and turn me away. I wouldn't have been able to handle it."

"That's what I should do, Sammy." Dean pushes to his feet, paces a few steps away and turns to look at Sam. The torment in his eyes scares Sam, and it hurts to know that it's his fault it's there. "I shouldn't even be considering this. It... I should end this. Now. Before we get any deeper."

"Dean-"

"No, Sam," Dean steps forward again, eyes blazing. "It can't happen. I can't let this happen. I can't fuck you up anymore, man."

"It's too late, Dean. I'm in love with you." Sam reaches up, catches Dean's face in his hands, palms cupping Dean's cheeks. Dean swallows, averts his eyes.

"No you aren't. You can't be."

"But I am, Dean. I can't fuck you, either, but that's what I did. I can't stop myself loving you, it's impossible."

"It's wrong," Dean repeats desperately, clinging on to the last strand of reason in his mind. "It's wrong and we shouldn't."

"But we do. We do and we have and we will. What happens next time you get drunk? Next time you lose control? It's going to happen, Dean. Whether you think it should or not."

"You're my brother," Dean whispers, hopelessly, and Sam's fingers tighten on his face.

"And I love you."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple, Dean. We can make it simple, I promise. I don't- I'm not asking that we go out on dates. I don't need us to make it official. We don't have to tell anyone. I just need you to say you love me. Please."

Dean pauses, searching through Sam's eyes as though he'll find the answer there. His tongue flickers out and wets his lips, and he nods slowly. Sam closes his eyes and pulls Dean forward into a tight embrace, pressing their forehead's together.

"Thank you," he breathes.

"I love you," Dean murmurs gently, leaning up to press his lips to Sam's in their first sober kiss. "I love you."

"I know," Sam replies gently against his brother's mouth, returning the kiss as a single tears leaks from his eyes. "I love you, too."


End file.
